


Silk Flowers

by amyoatmeal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Gothic, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Reincarnation, Romanticism, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, Trapped, Vampire Castiel (Supernatural), Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28818552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyoatmeal/pseuds/amyoatmeal
Summary: “What are you, then?”“The same as you are now,” Castiel suggests, “A vampyr.”Dean awakes in an unfamiliar room with a seemingly indelible hunger and he finds he isn’t alone.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	Silk Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cayenne_Pepper32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cayenne_Pepper32/gifts).



> By the bequest of my friend @AngelwithacapitalA, for the festival of tropes midwinter 5k: an over the top vampiric plot of a romance novel complete with flowery language. 🩸 
> 
> Inspired in part, by the song Immortal by Marina + the Diamonds
> 
> Lots of intense fruity flavor.
> 
> Anne Rice could never.

Through the eye of a needle, Dean emerges in the light.

A reedy groan forms in his throat and his eyes fly open, taking in the sliver of early morning light peering through the heavy drapery. The light hurts his eyes and he finds he can’t look at it without flinching. His hairline beads with pearls of sweat and his bare skin slips against the silk sheets beneath him. A sudden sense of dread overcomes him; and it’s then, Dean realizes, he's naked without the faintest idea where he’s woken up. 

The warm glow of the flickering candlelight is enough for him to discern the lavish room: the ornate fireplace; imported Persian rugs; the glow reflecting off the filigreed wallpaper. It takes everything in him to stand on two legs, but he doesn’t make it any further than that before he’s greeted by a voice. 

“Welcome back,” the deep, gravel voice lulls from the darkened corner. 

The room swims lazily in and out of focus as he detects the silhouette of a man through the firelight. On instinct, Dean fumbles for the shearing dagger he keeps in his trousers in some semblance of protection, but it’s nowhere to be found. 

“Looking for this?” Casually, the man brandishes the glinting dagger, setting it on the table beside him. “You’ve been out for quite some time, you know. I deigned to think I’d lost you again.”

“Where am I?” demands Dean.

“The French Quarter,” the man supplies. “The Place D’Armes Hotel.”

The room spins the more Dean tries to process that information and he feels as though he could topple in the breeze. His stomach twists as though he hasn’t eaten in days. “Who are you?” he manages to ask through the mounting nausea.

“My name is Castiel.”

“I’ve seen you before,” Dean accuses. “At the night market.” He suddenly gasps at the gnawing ache— he’s never felt this way before, not even when sacrificing his meals during lean season. He clutches the bed post for support, yet still he trembles, feeling like he’s been dosed with opium and arsenic. “What have you done to me?”

“I saved you,” Castiel states, almost smugly. 

Dean wades through the foggy mire of his mind for the ghost of understanding. He remembers going to the wharf the night before and drinking his friend Benny under the table on a lark, but this- this wasn’t from inebriation. He remembers the man at the saloon who’d been quicker with a dagger and the mental turmoil he’d been trying so desperately to erase with liquor before it fully dawned on him that perhaps he’s always had a death wish, only now, without Sam, there wasn’t any reason to fight it. 

In his bent and broken state, he’d slipped in and out of consciousness as his blood left him to cool in the cracks of the cobblestone street. His vision had been hazy then too, but he can admit to remembering the tooled leather shoes that so carefully sidestepped him and the soothing voice of a man not too dissimilar to the one speaking with him now. But more importantly, he remembers the pain leaving his body before everything went dark.

Before he woke up here. 

He looks down to his stomach then and finds it bizarrely whole again, unmarred. 

Not possible. 

“What are you, then?”

“The same as you are now,” Castiel suggests, “A vampyr.”

Dean’s fingers grasp at his throat, swallowing thickly. He stumbles over to the mirror then just to get a good look at it: at the scabbed over wounds just above his clavicle, before a sickly understanding overtakes him once more. “What have you done to me?” he repeats, jaw clenching and voice wavering with anger and disgust.

“You were very nearly dead,” Castiel supplies as if it helps anything. “Condolences,” he adds to the crumpled look on Dean’s face. 

A bitter rage swells against the back of Dean’s ribs as his face twists to match. “You should’ve left me then!” he blusters. “I’d rather be dead than be whatever damnable thing you’ve made me!”

“You didn’t want to die,” assures Castiel, as he inches closer, footsteps falling carefully on creaking floorboards. “I couldn’t let you. Not again.”

“And how would you know? Death would be sweeter than what you’ve done to me! You’ve made me a monster,” Dean sneers.

“There are far more effective ways to die than by picking a saloon fight with a common foot soldier. A musket round, perhaps,” he counters sardonically as he steps nearer. 

“You had no right!”

“You’re sired to me. You belong to me.” 

“Like hell I do!” 

Castiel reaches out to him then. In the candlelight, his sharp features are striking. The intense blue of his eyes is unnerving against his billowed blouse; the strong musculature of his lean body densely caked in drying blood. He tugs on the leather cord around his neck and dangles the bauble on the end in the glow. 

It’s an amulet. An antiquity. And it matches the one around Dean’s own neck perfectly. 

“Where did you get that?” Dean stammers..

“Byzantium. After the fall of Constantine.” Castiel lifts an eyebrow. “I think the better question might be: where did you get yours?”

“I found it as a child,” Dean proclaims, but at the knowing look on Castiel’s face, he starts to falter. “You— No. No, that’s not possible.” Taken aback in horror, he clumsily pushes past the man as he desperately rushes towards the door. 

“Dean, where are you going?” he asks, already exasperated.

“Wherever the fuck I want,” Dean reproaches, but he doesn’t get further than a few feet before he determines the source of the oppressive stench. He can’t tear his eyes away from the inelegant shape of a man draped over the settee in the corner. He stumbles back, wide eyes unflinching, as his empty stomach threatens to revolt. “Who the hell is that!?” he demands through another bout.

“The concierge.”

“What did he do to deserve it!?”

Boredly, Castiel doesn’t even turn a blind eye. “I was hungry and the room was costly. He proved very accommodating.”

In his stupor, Dean hastily stumbles for the door again, closer now this time, but within seconds he’s being thrown against it with a firm hand gripping him tightly by the jaw. 

“You will stay here,” Castiel asserts lowly, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I’ve searched for you for lifetimes and I will not let you out of my sight again.”

Nostrils flaring, Dean spits in his face and holds his gaze in defiance until he notices the blood left lingering at the corner of Castiel’s soft pink lips and down his chin. He gulps, averts his gaze to the bloodstains on his blouse. 

To the amulet. 

“I was ready to die,” he stubbornly maintains, voice hoarse from the strain. “Even if the consumption hadn’t come for me yet, it was only a matter of time.”

Stunned by the admission, Castiel’s features soften and he simply blinks, but then a pitying look overcomes him. Dean has grown to despise that look.

“Life is meaningless without purpose,” he touts, as if he knows firsthand. “You just didn’t have purpose in yours any longer. Now, I’ve given you a new one and time is… irrelevant, once more.” 

“How can you know who I am or what I want?” Dean grits out. “I don’t even know you.”

“We’ve known each other. Countless times.” Almost sadly, Castiel’s lips tug up in a small, wistful smile at the thought, but it’s ever so fleeting. “I made you now as you made me then—‘in God’s image’,” he muses aloud as if it were a joke between old friends or lovers. “I’ve tasted you, seen inside you. There’s nothing you could hide from me, Dean, much less a name.” He invades Dean’s space with the firm press of his hard body, and the aching hunger inside Dean grows deeper, nearly splitting him in half. “I’ve known you in other shapes… other times,” he explains in a murmur. “I’ve watched you in this life, longed for you, but couldn’t bring myself to take from you— Not till you’d grown. You have a rather maddening habit of dying before your time,” he chided. “But then last night I found you, nearing death, and it felt as though a miraculous gift had been bestowed upon me.” 

“A miraculous gift.” Dean simply scoffs at the notion, though he’s pinned in place like an articulated insect by the weight of emotion in Castiel’s gaze. 

Castiel smiles at the subtle fear still lurking behind Dean’s eyes, revealing a pointedly sharp set of teeth. “So, you see, Dean, I couldn’t leave you,” he finishes simply, “Because you’re my companion. My soulmate. And We will always find one another.”

The hold on Dean softens, becomes tender, and the pad of his thumb leaves a trail of blood as it slowly drags along Dean’s plush lower lip. There is a traitorous stirring in Dean’s chest and groin and, in an instant, that small smile morphs from something sweet to something wholly depraved. 

“Tell me, Dean,” he caresses the name with the tip of his tongue, “Are you hungry?” 

Dean should still be terrified, but he can’t feel anything. Not the fear or the anger or the immeasurable weight of indeterminate life. Nothing, besides the hunger threatening to destroy him. Feebly, he glances up at the blood on Castiel’s lips and he nods only once. So subtle the shift, Castiel encroaches his space and breathes hotly against the side of his neck. “Then you should drink,” he suggests in a goading whisper. 

The sound of Castiel’s dead heart beating causes Dean’s vision to swirl and his stomach to turn, but the ache within him claws at his insides and he’d be remiss to decline. Still, he presses his lips into a thin, white line and turns his head away. “No,” he pathetically protests, pushing at Castiel’s chest with his fists, “I won’t do it!”

“You will,” he counters, without any force— only knowing. 

“And if I don’t?”

“You will,” he maintains, “Because you can’t help it. It’s in your nature now. Our nature. And the sooner you drink, the closer you feel to human.” Castiel presses his thumb between the seam of Dean’s tight lips ever so slightly that only the essence singes his tongue, but it’s enough to black out his vision with pure, unadulterated wanting. The mewling moan that escapes his throat is pathetic, but the taste against his tongue leaves him wanting more. His hands come up to enfold Castiel’s and his eyes slip shut as he cleans the blood off the digit like a suckling pig, but in mere moments a rough hand grips him close to the scalp and demands his attention. Blinking up at him through his lashes, Dean pants heavily, chest heaving, with a pleading question in his dark eyes. 

“Do not gorge yourself like a common animal on tainted blood,” scolds Castiel, pulling the thumb from Dean’s mouth. “You’ll spoil your appetite.” The clouds in his vision have barely begun to part when Castiel releases his painful grip and Dean straightens his posture against the wall.

“Please,” Dean sobs, “I- I’m still… still hungry. I need more.”

“What is it that you crave, Dean? I would covet you anything, you need only ask,” he taunts.

Glancing to the corpse, the unnatural set in its limbs, the milk in its eyes, Dean feels repulsed. He can’t think with Castiel standing before him. He takes one long, lingering look at the healthy flush settled across Castiel’s chest and neck, the luscious hair on top of his head, the fullness of his blood-stained lips and he knows. “You,” he entreats, ignoring the shame he feels pooling in the pit of his stomach. “I want to taste you, Castiel. Please.” His eyes are practically pleading. 

Darkly, Castiel chuckles. “Of course you do. To drink from me is to remember me.” Castiel leans in to steal a bruising kiss from Dean’s lips. With that same goading look in his eye, Castiel takes a step back and removes his blouse altogether in one swift tug over his head, dropping it to the floor. His neck is long, pale, and delicate and Dean doesn’t think about the corpse at all anymore. 

When Castiel’s pulse jumps under his skin, Dean yearns for it. 

For him. 

He can’t explain why. 

“I know you need to feed, Dean. Don’t withhold on my account.” Lifting a finger to his own throat, Castiel punctures himself with the tip of his taloned finger and it’s like watching a rosebud bloom in the snow. 

White noise fills Dean’s eardrums in lust and need and hunger and want before he registers that he’s already lunged forward. He inhales a heady breath at the nearness, the warmth; his eyes roll heavenward at the sudden rush of ecstasy that fills him when his teeth tear into the delicate flesh as if it were merely parchment. 

“Yes,” Castiel hisses, low and long. He shudders a gasp and whimpers through the initial pain, soft hands going rigid once more as they grip at Dean’s slick skin. 

Hungrily, Dean sucks and laps at the wounds, his mind swimming in a state of transcendent euphoria at the heady taste of iron and salt thickly coating his tongue and teeth. The needy whimpers turn into wanton moans like a symphony swelling in his ear. 

Almost lovingly, Castiel runs his hands through Dean’s sweat-dampened hair, over the expanse of his shoulders and along his slender sides as Dean’s tongue and teeth work over his pulse point. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, Dean,” he breathes, “Always so beautiful. I’ve ached for you for so long.” 

His breath hits Dean’s ear in hot bursts as he pants sweet-nothings and Dean feels his length hardening under the unsubstantiated praise. Castiel slips a hand between them to pull himself out of his breeches, stroking his burgeoning hardness alongside Dean’s, but even then, Dean still finds he’s left hungry for more. 

“Castiel,” Dean moans into his skin, fingertips grazing Castiel’s skin, unsure if he’s allowed to touch him in such a way.

“I am yours as you are mine,” Castiel recites as he pulls back to cup Dean’s painted face in his hands, peering through him as if he’s seeing into his very soul. He dips down to draw Dean’s lip between his teeth, reveling in the subtle tang of his own blood. “I’ve waited for you for so long. It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been with you in this way. Tell me you remember our bond,” he rasps against Dean’s slackened, bloody jaw. 

It doesn’t come to him instantaneously, in one moment or the next, but there is something inside of him drawn to the depths of the ocean in the other man’s eyes. And it’s foolish and impossible, but Dean remembers on some subatomic level. He remembers this. 

“Cas, I— I remember you.”

At the admission, Castiel surges forward to capture him in a delirious kiss, thrusting his tongue between slick lips. Forgetting himself fully, he coerces Dean towards the bed until he falls onto the mattress, nearly breathless. Castiel’s cock is flushed full and red as he crawls over him. He hovers there, littering soft, reverent kisses to Dean’s freckled skin and the delicacy of it is such a stark contrast to the brutality he craves, Dean lets out a choked sob.

Castiel’s eyes dance between his, alight with the kind of insistence and thrill that makes Dean want to remember more if only to please him, but he’s left with nothing in its place aside from the baser instinct of a warm hand finding his leaking cock again. When Dean doesn’t continue, Castiel folds over him, hiding his face in the curve of his throat. 

Gently, he bites back, infusing all his devotion into a single act.

The sudden headrush is intoxicating like a sweet poison coursing through Dean’s bloodstream. His eyes roll back, skull knocking against the headboard. His fingers claw at Castiel’s arched back as he licks at the wound, but the distinct moment he catches the scent Dean’s latches onto Castiel’s throat once more. They moan in unison, coaxing the other out, intoxicated on the others essence alone. And this feeling of absolute ecstasy is enough to remember the sheer gravity of just how long his soul has been tethered to Castiel’s. 

It’s ineffable. 

It’s beyond it. 

It’s the only thing Dean can see clearly.

Bringing a hand up to cradle Castiel’s face, Dean takes him in fully now. “Cas, I- I never got to tell you then.”

Castiel reluctantly tears himself away, lips lingering on his throat a moment longer, before he meets his gaze. “You never had to,” he utters, “I’ve always been yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> 🎶 hey, I just met you and this is _crazy_ , but you’re my soulmate, eat me maybe. 🎶


End file.
